Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Running Away - Rabbi Shira on Kol Nidrei 5778

Running Away
Rabbi Shira Stutman

When I was five years old, I ran away from home.

There was a lot going on at that time: my parents had decided to move from Philadelphia to Washington, where I would leave my public school and start attending a Jewish day school; my dad had already left for DC to begin his new job; my mom was pregnant with my brother. I decided things would be simpler at my friend Cheryl Price’s house.

I packed my suitcase, grabbed my blankie, and took off.

When I got to Cheryl’s house, it was fun for a little while, but I soon started to regret my decision. Or not regret, exactly: I realized that I hadn’t thought this whole thing through. I didn’t know where I would sleep. Her parents didn’t allow us to eat in the living room. I still didn’t get to make all the choices. (Shocker: I was a pretty head-strong kid.) So I concocted a new plan, which is that I would go live at Brian Kelley’s house. Maybe that’s where I’d feel at home. Fortunately or unfortunately, before I could put Plan B into place, my mom tracked me down and took me home “against my will.” And the next year turned out just fine, as you probably imagined. DC is a solid place to grow up. And Zak, my baby brother? He’ll do.

I have forgotten most of my childhood, which is a serious problem for any rabbi who gives regular sermons and needs material. But this story, the one where I run away to Cheryl Price’s house, I remember. My kids haven’t threatened to run away, thank God, but sometimes they insinuate that such-and-such parent is “better” than me or my husband in a certain way. And I’ll say: “do you really think life would be happier or more meaningful in such-and-such house? Do you think you wouldn’t have the same issues--or different ones?”

“Well, no,” my kids say. Except one time, Natalia quickly retorted, “At least I’d get to eat bacon at my friend’s house.”

True. But is that what you’re really looking for when you run away?

On Yom Kippur afternoon, we read the biblical book of Jonah. Written about 2,700 years ago, it tells the story of a Hebrew prophet, Jonah, sent by God to prophesy the destruction of the ancient city of Nineveh (a city that still exists today, although we know it by its contemporary name: Mosul, in Iraq). For a number of reasons, he does not want to complete his mission, so he runs away. He boards a ship in Jaffa, and heads to Tarshish. (We don’t exactly know where Tarshish is, but the name is used a few times in the Bible to indicate a place just about as far away as you can imagine.) As the ship sets sail, he goes underdeck to take a nap.

Jonah’s instinctual desire to escape resonates. For many of us, our first response to a difficult situation is to run away. We grab for a quick-fix to whatever issue with which we’re struggling. Your job not working for you? Look for another job. Ghosted on a friend for a few months while they were going through a difficult time, embarrassed about reaching back out? Don’t--just find a new friend. Political craziness weighing on your soul? You deserve to be happy and ignore the rest. Avoidance is your best friend.

For me, the planning stage of the escape is the best part. The fantasy--a workplace with no internal politics, a deep friendship with no conflict, a love affair with someone who fits every single one of my needs. A new apartment with appliances that never break. And me! Don’t forget the me who will be a totally different person in this new situation. I’ll just close the book on the old me. We are lulled by one part of the American dream: when the going gets tough, just hitch up the wagon and go westward. But beware that moment when you realize that you’ve spent more time planning the escape than working on the problem itself.
Let’s try a mind exercise for a moment: think back to 10 years ago. How was your life different? How was it exactly the same? What were some of the moments that you ran from that in retrospect you wish you had run toward? “Human beings,” teaches the psychologist Dan Gilbert, “are works in progress that mistakenly think they're finished. The person you are right now is as transient, as fleeting and as temporary as all the people you've ever been. The one constant in our life is change.” To take on a challenge, whatever the challenge, rather than run from it is to recognize exactly how much more there is to grow, and to know, and to experience in this world.

Jonah has basically gone down in history as the prophet who ran away. He gets on the boat--as a passive passenger, not even a hard-working sailor--to the furthest place possible and goes sleep below deck. God gets angry at Jonah and “cast[s] a great wind upon the sea, and such a great storm came upon the sea that the boat was in danger of breaking up” (1.4). The sailors become terrified and start to pray, but not Jonah. He’s still asleep. The captain finds Jonah, wakes him up, and tells him to get praying, as well. They all quickly realize that the storm has come upon them because Jonah has angered his god, YHVH. Jonah knows the only thing that will calm the waters is if they throw him into the sea, but at first the sailors refuse. The storm grows worse, though, so “they lifted Jonah and cast him into the sea--and the sea stopped raging” (1:15).

Many of you know what happens next: Jonah is swallowed by a big fish. For three days and three nights, he prays to God, repents, and asks for deliverance. God responds; the fish spits him out in “Nineveh, the very place to which God had called Jonah in the first place. The moral of the story is yet another paradox: running away from a true calling may be the surest way to run toward it, even though you may arrive soaked and smelly.”

Jonah knew the gig was up; he went into the city to prophesize. And it worked. As a result of Jonah’s preaching, the entire population repents and is spared destruction.

Me from my family; Jonah from God--the moral of the story is the same. Running away doesn’t get you very far. The irony is that Jonah wasn’t thinking clearly when he decided to run away to Tarshish. He forgot that in running away from responsibilities, he was attempting to run away from God. But God caught up with him, which will happen to any of us who are trying to live an authentic life. Because wherever we go, whether to Nineveh or Tarshish, we take ourselves with us. Whatever we’re running from--the fear, the learning, the vulnerability--will most definitely come along as emotional baggage. Running to a new job after a screw-up at the old one keeps you from growing as a professional. Running from one friendship to another may be even more harmful, as a growthful and supportive friendship requires a certain level of intimacy that can only be attained by trial and error, fighting and making up, being thoughtful and curious.

Because the truth is, if you run once, the next time the same challenge strikes (and it will), you may be tempted to run again. And then you’d have to run further, and faster, because the easiest opt-out is no longer available. Even worse, you may not present yourself with a whole heart to the next friend, the next community, the next job, because a small part of you is waiting to go.

The most difficult route is the most effective one. Step away from the escape plan and reorient yourself. What do you want to run toward. Who will you be not if you leave but if you stand your ground, in a growth mindset? This is true cheshbon hanefesh, an accounting of the soul.

To be clear--running toward or away does not entirely equate with a physical move; it can also be a spiritual or emotional one. When I tell a story about being a cute 5-year-old who leaves home, or even the story of a prophet who gets on a boat, it is only natural that you would infer that physically leaving=running away and physically staying=running toward. But that is not often the case. Some of the strongest cases for so-called “running toward” can happen when you decide to leave a relationship, for instance, or to leave a job to follow a dream. What differentiates the movement as “away” or “toward” has less to do with physical movement and more to do with thoughtfulness, authenticity, and integrity. It privileges moving toward your truth rather than finding a quick-fix or even sitting in safety. When we make big life decisions, we should make them from a place of what we want to move toward, not what we want to move away from.

Jonah could not escape his responsibilities and challenges just by turning his back, jumping on a boat and sailing away. Just the opposite. It is in that moment when we turn around to face the tough places that we are truly “walking in God’s ways,” a phrase repeated often in the Bible and considered one of the most important ideals in Judaism (Sotah 14a).

Rabbi Shai Held teaches that “...[f]aced with a situation that makes us stare the depth and extent of our vulnerability in the face, most of us want to flee. Here, then, is Judaism’s message: You want to serve God? Run towards the very people and places you most want to run away from. You want to be religious? Learn to be present for other people when they are in pain.” Learn to be present for yourself and allow yourself to be in pain and to grow. You can ignore our responsibilities and take a nap while the storm rages around us, but then you’ll just end up sitting alone, deep underwater. We should only be so lucky to have a ship captain who comes to wake us up and to try to remind us, or a mom who comes to Cheryl Price’s house to find us. Find the friends and people who will be that ezer k’negdo, the ones who will support you as you do the hard work, and keep them close.

Think about your own life and struggles. What are you running away from? What have you been avoiding? Dreading? Not dealing with? What can you commit to moving toward? What will your future self thank you for?

A few years ago, I counseled a Sixth & I couple going through a very difficult time. There were terrible betrayals, deeply missed lines of communication, avoidance, anger. Both partners--but especially the one that felt more betrayed--seriously considered divorce. They decided instead--for now--to go into counseling, to recognize where each partner had work to do, to process the betrayal, to try to remain an intact family.

A year ago, I received an email from one of them with the subject line: “things I hold on to.” I cannot imagine a better articulation of what it means to “run towards” rather than “run away” than the following email:

I still have
  • a beautiful baby
  • a job where I am appreciated and praised
  • a job where I get to really help people
  • a house that is appreciating in value, keeps my family safe and warm, and has some really lovely detailing
  • an extended family that provides financial and emotional support
  • A wonderful religious community
  • My faith in God (even if we haven't talked that much without crying lately) {notice it’s ambiguous who’s doing the crying}

I still am:
  • loved by my child
  • loved by my partner
  • part of a family
  • part of a marriage
  • part of a movement to end poverty - that still has some wins if not as many as we want
  • loved by myself
  • loved by God

I cope by
  • Talking about my feelings
  • Watching terrible TV
  • Spending time with those I love
  • Spending too much time on twitter
  • [Drinking] Wine
  • Cooking
  • Snuggling the baby (and sometimes the partner)

That’s it. That’s what you get when you run towards, rather than running away. Bad tv, wine, and the potential to grow in ways unimaginable, even as you still acknowledge you don’t know what the future holds. You don’t get swallowed by a big fish--or when you do, you get spit out onto dry land exactly where you’re supposed to be and go on to do important things. You get to move from Philadelphia to Washington DC and become the big sister to a brother (now two brothers) who have your back like just about no one else in the whole world. You spread God’s love and compassion, you care for the needy, the helpless, the broken. There aren’t always fireworks, and it’s certainly not easy. But life lived more thoughtfully, more reflectively, more openly, a life of moving toward rather than running from--perhaps that’s the sweetest life of all.

Gmar tov, everyone. May we be signed and sealed for a courageous new year.

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